


La Veille de Noël

by mourningmarlowe



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Party, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2132106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mourningmarlowe/pseuds/mourningmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Christmas Eve, and les Amis are enjoying their annual party at the café Musain where there is good food, good company, and very good wine. Not everyone is in the Christmas spirit, however, and conflicts arise over sarcastic comments, sheer obliviousness, and mold on the Camembert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camembert

**Author's Note:**

> A short, modern AU E/R fic with multiple relationships.

The streets of Paris were cold in the bitter winter night, seeming strangely deserted under the hazy, orange glow of the streetlamps. But inside the café Musain it was warm, the room bathed in rosy light and filled with the sounds of easy laughter and fond conversation. The young men and women packed inside that particular cafe were not concerned by the darkness that lurked just outside the fogged windows, nor the merciless cold that stopped short at the door, waiting for the inhabitants to dare to venture outside. No one had any intention of leaving the sanctuary anytime soon. Not when the wine was flowing freely and everyone was in such good spirits.

There was one thing, however, that tempered the elation of the evening. Not a thing, perhaps, so much as a person. For the party was missing one of their number. And while no individual in the group was held above any other, this man's absence was keenly felt by his friends, and there was a distinct feeling of incompleteness. And so les Amis de l'ABC waited for their friend, the stolid figure whose passion and determination helped to keep them all unified around a common goal.

Two pairs of eyes in particular were watching the top of the stairs that led up to their cozy little loft: the calm gray eyes of the group's guide, who was sitting by the fireplace with Jehan Prouvaire, and the warm brown eyes belonging to the center, who could be found lounging at a table near the back with Bahorel and Feuilly. The man they were waiting for was supposed to be on his way, late from the university library, as he'd explained in a hurried text sent to Combeferre. This was hardly an unusual occurrence for their absent friend, but this was Christmas Eve, la veille de Noël, and the others were beginning to grow impatient, their guide even approaching concerned. It was dark, after all, and his closest friend, indeed the man he considered a brother, was walking alone.

But his worries were quickly assuaged when a head of wild, untamed golden curls appeared through the posts of the banister, and there was a delighted shout from the table at the back from which Courfeyrac and Bahorel rose in unison, moving quickly to meet their friend at the top of the stairs and leaving Feuilly to smile after them, taking a drink of wine.

"Enjolras!" This was the warm, laughter-filled voice of the jovial center, who clasped Enjolras' shoulder fondly, a grin lighting his handsome face. "You certainly took your time. Was there a date we didn't know about? A holiday sweetheart, perhaps?"

Bahorel in turn took the blond's other arm, his grip firm. "Nah, he probably just got lost in all those books again. He's getting more and more like 'Ferre every day."

Combeferre, for his part, was watching the three men fondly, though his eyes were concerned as they focused on Enjolras in particular. His best friend was smiling, accepting the others' teasing with reasonably good humor that was surely a product of the season of giving. But he looked rather...drawn; tired and overworked. There were dark bruises under his eyes and his complexion seemed to be even paler than normal, his face gaunt and angular, suggesting he hadn't been eating well. Even his hair contributed to the overall look of distress, his blond curls appearing brittle and tangled beyond the point of mere unruliness. Combeferre knew how hard his friend worked, of course, they all did, but this was something else. Enjolras did not look well. At all.

Still, Combeferre did not allow himself to dwell on these thoughts for long. This was meant to be a party after all, and he didn't wish to spoil the festive mood with his personal doubts. But he made a mental note to speak to Enjolras about it in private, knowing full well he would have to choose his words carefully. His best friend tended to run on a short fuse and was quick to anger. Combeferre looked up at Bahorel's words, his face a perfect mask of offense though his eyes glowed fondly.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Bahorel," he called in mock sternness, one eyebrow delicately raised, and Bahorel just grinned, squeezing Enjolras' arm before letting go and returning to Feuilly, slinging an arm around the man's shoulders. Combeferre got to his feet, crossing the room, and Courfeyrac moved back almost respectfully to give them space, going over to take Combeferre's place beside Jehan who was still sitting by the fire, long auburn hair glowing in the light of the flames.

"I'm glad you came, Enjolras," Combeferre murmured, clasping his shoulder warmly. "It wouldn't have been the same without you."

Enjolras smiled wearily, shaking his head a little and touching his friend's arm; for him, the equivalent of an embrace.

"I'm sure you would have made do," he answered quietly, relaxing now that the great event of his arrival seemed to have faded and some of the others had gone back to whatever it was they were originally doing. Combeferre simply shook his head in an unconscious mimicry, smiling gently.

"Come put your bag down and we'll get something to eat," he offered, his voice firm, though he was still smiling as he led Enjolras over to a table by the window, waiting for the blond to shrug the wide strap of the red messenger bag off his bony shoulder before directing him to the table laid out with food: half a dozen different kinds of cheeses, cookies with aniseed and cinnamon, bowls of nuts, fresh and dried fruit, cuts of cooked meat. Standing so close to it all, the smell was almost overwhelming and Enjolras had to close his eyes briefly before opening them again, not even sure where to begin.

"Eponine brought beef bourguignon," the guide explained, nodding to the stew-like dish. "And I think Cosette made pear tarte tartin, and Jehan brought a bûche de Noël for later." It all sounded like far too much to Enjolras and he shook his head a little.

"...I'm not very hungry," the blond admitted, not seeming to notice the way Combeferre's face fell just out of the corner of his eye. "I drank a cup of coffee on my way here."

"Coffee isn't food, Enjolras. Have a little something, at least," his friend insisted, watching him closely, and Enjolras relented, adding a handful of almonds, cashews, some cheese and fruit to his plate before turning to Combeferre with a look that asked silently, 'Are you satisfied now?' Combeferre merely arched an eyebrow in warning, directing him back to their table so he could make sure the food actually got into his system.

Courfeyrac watched the entire exchange from his spot near the fire, and if his eyes lingered on one man more than the other, surely no one noticed. Surely.

"What do you think, Jehan?" he asked the young poet beside him in his lilting accent, head of dark brown curls tilted almost childishly to the side.

"I think Enjolras looks ill," Jehan sighed, though he privately thought that Courfeyrac's gaze perhaps wasn't trained so much on the blond as it was on the tall, bespectacled man in his company. "He's very thin," he added, his green eyes dim with concern. "I mean in an unhealthy way. I hope Combeferre can get him to eat something." If Enjolras would listen to anyone, it was Combeferre, but even the guide had trouble getting his friend to see reason sometimes.

A few tables away, Joly and Bossuet were having a very somber conversation concerning the cheese on the latter's plate. Joly was demanding that Bossuet throw it away because did he have any idea how many harmful bacteria mold could contain? Salmonella, brucella, E. coli, listeria... Bossuet meanwhile was calmly insisting to Joly that the cheese was of the Camembert variety and that it was supposed to look like that, to which Joly responded that he knew very well what Camembert was supposed to look like, thank you very much, and that the mold on this piece of cheese in particular was in reality a lethal assassin masquerading as a conspicuous attribute of fine dining.

Bossuet had drunk several glasses of wine by this point and Joly's words rather went over his head as he lifted a finger to scratch under his cap. In response, he brought a piece of the Camembert to his mouth, raising both eyebrows and taking a pointed, rather obnoxious bite. He laughed at the horrified look on the other's face, spitting crumbs across the table and coughing slightly when some of the cheese went down the wrong way. Which of course called for more wine.

While most of the Amis had a glass of wine at their elbow, or shared a bottle among a table, one man seemed to have claimed a bottle for himself so as to avoid the hassle of constantly reaching to refill his glass. Grantaire sat with Bossuet and Joly, chuckling when the unlucky man inhaled the Camembert a touch too fast in an effort to prove a point. He took a pull from the bottle of wine in front of him, watching Bossuet reach for his own glass, still coughing slightly, while Joly looked on in genuine concern and rubbed the man's back. Once he confirmed his friend would survive, Grantaire allowed his gaze to flicker back to where it had been traveling frequently ever since a certain young man (twenty-two years old, Gemini, loves long walks down the Champs-Élysées shouting 'vive la République' at the top of his lungs, Grantaire recited to himself), had appeared at the top of the stairs like a famous general come to assemble his troops. Enjolras didn't seem to notice the gaze of the older man, his attention primarily commanded by his best friend needling him to, "Have some of the cheese Enjolras, it's good protein. You really don't want to have to deal with protein deficiency at your age, trust me."

But Grantaire wasn't concerned with the lack of attention from the young blond. It was hardly anything new, and he was in a reasonably good mood. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he was with his friends. There were paint stains on his fingers from his latest project, which was going surprisingly well, Bossuet and Joly were cheering him up, and he had a halfway decent bottle of wine in his hand. As long as Enjolras wasn't paying any attention to him, he was free to look wherever he pleased, safe at his table at the back of the room, nursing his wine as though he was whispering secrets down the bottleneck. And perhaps he was. Though the smirk remained on Grantaire's face, his dark green eyes glowed whenever they happened to rest on the young man in red, and it was difficult to tell what really lay behind the cynic's smile.


	2. Absent Friends

Once it seemed that everyone was present and accounted for, the festivities were finally able to continue in full spirit. The bottoms of plates became gradually more visible, bottles grew steadily lighter, and the laughter in the room was considerably louder, colored by warmth and the crimson of wine. Even Enjolras had begun to relax, the smile on his face easier than it had been when he'd first arrived, and surely that was a sign if ever there was one that the mood was pleasant.

Perhaps more than anyone (well, almost anyone), Courfeyrac was enjoying an extremely pleasant buzz from the constant flow of wine. Whenever there threatened to be a shortage of the beverage of choice, Bossuet and Joly took it in turns to cajole Musichetta to part with "just one more bottle, mon amour, belle dame," and though the woman made a show of protesting, she always relented, swatting at her men as they graced her plump cheeks with chaste (and sometimes sloppy), kisses.

The light haze of alcohol warmed the dark-haired center all the way through, making the room seem just a bit brighter than it really was and colors that much more lovely to look at. He remained sitting by the fire, the flames crackling as lively as ever, only now he had pulled Jehan onto his lap and was smothering his upturned, blushing face with kisses, much to the poet's embarrassment and delight. Bahorel and Feuilly heckled them mercilessly while the others simply rolled their eyes and smiled knowingly.

It was common knowledge that Courfeyrac and Jehan were an item; they shared an apartment not far from the Musain and were more often than not seen in each other's company. But their relationship was far from exclusive, as would be expected from two self-declared libertines (although the romantic poet insisted that he was still waiting for 'the one', and the dreamy expression that never failed to light his face at the words was far too naive and sentimental to warrant too much teasing from his friends). The two men had long since come to a mutual agreement that allowed them to enjoy the company of others who happened to catch their fancy without any guilt, a mutual agreement which Courfeyrac took advantage of nearly every night, to the point where Jehan was growing somewhat concerned. And he wasn't the only one.

For it was also no secret that the loud, boisterous, quick with a joke center was hopelessly, madly, head over heels in love with the quiet, bookish guide. Unfortunately, the only man who had yet to pick up on this crucial piece of information was the guide himself; ironically so, considering his tendency to enthusiastically seek out and devour every bit of new information to be had like some sort of prehistoric creature that feasted on books rather than flesh. Still, Combeferre remained utterly in the dark when it came to the indisputable fact that one of his best friends since secondary school was desperately in love with him. Also ironic, since he happened to be desperately in love with Courfeyrac as well, and the only one who didn't know that was the center. Even Enjolras knew of the predicament, a sure sign that things had become desperate. Their friends longed to intervene but had reached the general conclusion that Courfeyrac and Combeferre needed to figure things out for themselves.

And it was hell to watch.

Now, Courfeyrac looked up from kissing Jehan's dainty nose (failing to notice the fact that Combeferre was staring determinedly into his shallow glass of wine with a somber expression and a light frown), to smile over at Cosette, who was setting some of the empty bowls and platters aside to make things easier later.

"What's this!" he cried in mock outrage, his speech noticeably slower and the Irish in his accent far stronger. "Has Marius left you to look after us like a serving wench, then? The sexist pig!"

The young woman smiled in allowance, tucking a loose strand of flaxen hair behind her ear as she answered.

"His grandfather is sick, he's spending Christmas Eve with him. I'm going to join them as soon as the party is over."

Courfeyrac sobered slightly, but only for a moment, and then he was raising his glass with a dramatic flourish. It was a miracle he didn't spill any of the wine on himself as he lifted the glass above his head, the contents sloshing dangerously.

"To absent friends, then!" he called, his eyes glossy. "And may we all hope for the invalid years of our elders, and the nursing homes that always seem to smell of soup, to remain in the very, very far future. Santé !"

There was an echo back that filled the room (slightly less enthusiastic from Combeferre, who took a quick, rather large gulp of wine before setting his glass down, ignoring Enjolras' concerned frown), and Cosette raised an eyebrow in gentle reprimand at Courfeyrac before taking a small sip from her own glass, smiling fondly at Eponine when the woman wrapped an arm around her slender waist.

Grantaire was not watching Courfeyrac, or Cosette, or anyone else for that matter, save for one man as he lifted his glass, which he'd just taken the liberty of adding to; for the sake of the toast, of course. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras, and as though feeling the intent stare of the cynic, Enjolras turned his head to look over his shoulder, meeting Grantaire's gaze for the first time that evening.

If Grantaire's heart leapt into his throat, if his pulse kicked up several notches and his stomach bottomed out at just one look from those piercing blue eyes, he didn't show it. Instead he smirked and winked suggestively before draining his glass in one go, all without taking his eyes off the blond. Enjolras scoffed and turned away before Grantaire could see the flush that crept into his cheeks, though he hated to be the first to break. And just like that, his back was to Grantaire and all the cynic could see were those golden curls tumbling over gently sloping shoulders and the delicate curve of the long, narrow back that he always seemed to be staring at. And though the sight in itself was enough to inspire a thousand ideas for a painting (and a gentle rush of heat to his middle, which he attempted to drown with more wine to no avail), it was nothing compared to the feeling of staring into those impossibly blue eyes; cold as ice and yet capable of such passionate fire that they threatened to burn Grantaire alive. And honestly, he could think of worse ways to go.


	3. Ultimatum

As the night wore on, the fire began to burn lower in the hearth, casting long, dark shadows across the hardwood floor. The chatter and laughter had faded to a pleasant hum and everyone was content to simply enjoy each others' company, scattered around the room in various laid back positions. 

Bossuet had consumed several glasses of wine and was now dozing happily with his head resting on the table while Joly poked at the leftover Camembert with a plastic fork, mumbling to himself, though his relaxed expression suggested that he wasn't particularly worried about any immediate onset of germ warfare. Grantaire watched him with an amused smile, his gaze flickering occasionally to where Enjolras still sat with Combeferre, and he admired the way the dying firelight played on the man's ethereal blond hair.

Standing beside the fireplace, Bahorel and Feuilly were currently holding Jehan aloft between them so that the poet could affix an evergreen wreath to the nail positioned directly above the hearth. Courfeyrac stood close by, helpfully 'supervising' by exclaiming that the wreath was hanging too far this way or that way.

Though how he could judge the spatial balance of anything in his current inebriated state was anyone's guess. 

Eponine and Cosette looked on with concerned expressions, leaning forward anxiously every time Jehan swayed in the air or Bahorel lifted him a touch too high. The fact that Feuilly was significantly shorter than his Herculean companion really didn't help matters, leaving Jehan leaning at an odd angle while still struggling to accommodate Courfeyrac's instructions. 

Because quite honestly, the constant protestations of "Wait, wait-- just- almost- aw come on, it was perfect 'till you hit it", were slightly irritating, if amusing when taken out of context, which Bahorel and Feuilly certainly did. 

Finally Jehan declared his task complete, reasoning that a crooked wreath was more appropriate anyway, and he rapped the top of Bahorel's head gently to signal that he wanted to be set down. Once he was firmly grounded (much to Cosette and Eponine's relief), he turned to Courfeyrac with a grim expression. 

"If you make one more comment about the wreath, I shall turn you into a Christmas ornament and hang you from it," he promised the man calmly, to which Courfeyrac wisely said nothing, hiccuping softly and glancing down at Combeferre. 

The guide simply raised an eyebrow up at him before looking away and taking a measured sip of his wine, so he was the only one who didn't see the way Courfeyrac's face fell slightly. But the brunet was quick to recover, grinning and bending down to peck Jehan's cheek, causing the poet to wrinkle his nose but smile indulgently. Then even Jehan swatted him away, clapping his small hands together decisively.

"It's time for the bûche de Noël!" he announced excitedly, spinning on his heels to take survey of the entire room, frowning when he didn't receive an equally enthusiastic response from the sleeping Bossuet. Smiling apologetically, Joly nudged the snoozing man, causing him to jerk awake with a mumbled protestation of, "I swear 'Chetta, it was already broken," to which Grantaire chuckled and took another swig of wine. 

Once he was satisfied, Jehan gestured for the others to join him as he went over to the dessert of honor, occupying its own special place on the long table. He had made the 'yule log' himself, using spongecake and chocolate buttercream, creating ridges in the icing to give it the appearance of bark. He was proud of his creation, and rightfully so, the others admiring it as well as they gathered around, warm and content, some a little drunk, some sleepy, all delighted to be there with their friends. 

"Somebody put more wood on the fire, I can't see anything," Joly protested, squinting and rubbing his nose. 

"Hey, Combe-Combe-- ...'Ferre, give 'im your glasses," Bahorel managed, leaning heavily against Feuilly while the guide smiled in weary amusement. 

"The problem isn't his vision, Bahorel, it's the lighting. Giving him my glasses won't help." Combeferre's voice was patient despite the fact that such a point would not need to have been made to a sober man. 

He hoped, anyway.

"I've got wood if we need some," Courfeyrac announced helpfully, grinning, and Combeferre rolled his eyes, saying nothing. 

Finally it was Bossuet who took the initiative, stumbling over to the fireplace and fumbling in the wicker basket that Musichetta had decorated with a red bow for a piece of wood. Recognizing the emergency, Eponine dashed over, gently taking the firewood from his hands and preventing what was sure to have been a disaster. 

The last thing they needed was a Christmas Eve story about a singed Bossuet to tell in later years. 

With the addition of the fresh kindling, the fire eventually crackled back into life, filling the room with a glowing warm light and illuminating the faces of those gathered around the table. 

"See, Apollo? Even at its height, the fire cannot hope to burn as brightly as you." 

No one needed to look to see who had spoken, and the tension the words caused became instantly palpable as dead silence fell over the room. All eyes were trained nervously on either Enjolras or Grantaire, waiting for the inevitable blowout. Combeferre closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Why did they have to do this, on Christmas Eve, of all nights? The response from Enjolras wasn't long in coming. 

"I might actually take your sentiment to heart, Grantaire," the blond began coolly, his voice like ice, "if I didn't know that it was nothing more than the absinthe-inspired ramblings of a hopeless drunkard." 

Somehow, Combeferre's eyes managed to close even tighter. They really were going to do this now. 

Bastards. 

Grantaire, to his credit, didn't seem to be at all fazed by the harsh words; because he wasn't. He'd suffered the brunt of Enjolras' scorn and disdain long enough to learn not to reveal anything, no matter what unpleasant emotions the words stirred in his chest, and now he just smiled, though the expression was thin and forced. 

"You wound me, Apollo," he smirked, one of his favorite, sometimes overused replies. "But it's Christmas Eve. Surely that deserves some consideration. You cannot begrudge me my wine tonight, not when almost everyone here has indulged themselves. Even your loyal lieutenant." 

He winked at Combeferre, whose eyes flew open. Why the hell was Grantaire dragging him into this? He gave the cynic a warning glare, making it clear that he had no intention of taking sides, which suited Grantaire just fine, because he had no doubt that Combeferre would take Enjolras' anyway. The blond raised an eyebrow, the look on his face nothing short of withering. 

"That's true, they have indulged themselves," he agreed, though no one was naive enough to believe that the acknowledgement had been made in any kind of good faith. Not with those two. "And that's why they call it an indulgence. Because it is a rare occasion. For you, it is not only an everyday occurrence, it is a way of life." 

Grantaire placed a hand on his chest in mock solemnity, adopting a look of contrition. 

"Guilty as charged, o' Fearless Leader. You see right through me." This was said with biting sarcasm, because in fact, Enjolras saw nothing. Even the others were willing to admit that. 

Enjolras frowned, slightly taken aback by the venom in the words but he soon recovered, scoffing. 

"I have no desire to see any part of you." 

"Any part, Enjolras?" Courfeyrac chimed in helpfully, ignoring the warning tug on his sleeve from the suddenly anxious Jehan, who was watching the two men nervously, his face pale. "You sure about that? Because I could think of- shit!" He whined loudly in protest when Jehan suddenly stomped none too gently on Courfeyrac's foot under the table, the poet's green eyes open wide in innocence. 

"Are you alright, mon ami?" Prouvaire chirped with perfect concern. "Perhaps you should sit down for a moment." 

Courfeyrac grumbled but obeyed grudgingly, much to everyone's relief. Enjolras and Grantaire had never once looked away from the other. Grantaire gave the blond another smile, but this time it was sad and resigned. 

"I wish I could say the same thing about you, Apollo," he murmured finally, his voice soft and more than a little resentful. "It would be easier for everyone involved." 

Even Enjolras wasn't sure what to say to that and he hesitated, much to everyone's surprise, blinking quickly as he studied Grantaire's face, his fair brow furrowed. Grantaire didn't end up giving him a chance to respond, straightening suddenly and adopting a self-deriding smirk. 

"Well mes amis," he drawled, full of false bravado, "I think that's enough Christmas spirit for me. I shall leave you to your peace, joy, and merry-making. ...And whatever else you might make," he added winking at Courfeyrac who smiled somewhat dazedly, his foot still throbbing. 

With a dramatic bow to Enjolras, unable to resist a final dig, Grantaire took his leave, snatching an unattended bottle of wine from the table and sauntering down the stairs and out the door, leaving an uncomfortable, ringing silence behind him.

"...Well that went well," Joly quipped suddenly, causing Bossuet to glance over at him from where he sat leaning heavily against a grim-looking Eponine, blinking sleepily. 

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to respond, glancing up at Jehan and seeming to think better of it, closing his mouth again. The poet was crestfallen, looking down at the forgotten cake that he'd worked so hard on. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to be happy, and laughing, and singing Christmas songs. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away quickly, pressing his lips tightly together. 

Combeferre took one look at him and turned immediately to Enjolras, his face stern. 

"You need to go talk to him," he said flatly, nodding towards the stairs. "Now." 

"What? Why on earth should I-" 

"Enjolras." 

It became very clear very quickly that Combeferre was not going to be swayed on this point and Enjolras scowled in defeat, glaring over at the stairs as though they had personally offended him. 

"If you can work it out, we would love for both of you to rejoin us," Combeferre went on, his tone cooling though it was now resigned. "It is Christmas Eve, after all, it's meant to be shared with friends and family. But if you can't, please keep it away from the Musain so the rest of us can enjoy ourselves for once." 

The ultimatum dropped with such heavy finality it could practically be felt in the small room, and no one so much as breathed, staring between the two men, fire and ice. In the end, ice won out and Enjolras grabbed his bag from the table, slinging it over his shoulder and storming out of the cafe. The moment he was gone, Combeferre sighed heavily, slumping, and he wrapped an arm around Jehan when the little poet pressed against his side.

"Do you think they'll be alright?" Jehan murmured, playing absently with Combeferre's sweater. 

Combeferre pressed a kiss to the top of his head, his nose brushing the poet's soft hair, and he closed his eyes briefly before forcing a smile, nodding. 

"I know they will," he answered, doing everything he could to sound more convinced than he actually was. "It's Christmas Eve, after all." He squeezed Jehan gently before releasing him, looking around at the others. "Come on, then. Jehan spent all day working on this cake, I think it's only right that we enjoy it. Together."


	4. Apollo

Utterly ridiculous, Enjolras fumed to himself as he walked, his shoes slamming against the pavement with every step. How was he even meant to find Grantaire, the man was probably long gone by now-- oh. He spotted a lone figure up ahead, leaning against the outside wall of one of the city's many alleyways, and it was a figure he would have recognized anywhere. 

Swallowing thickly, Enjolras steeled himself before drawing slowly closer, close enough to see the silhouette of the bottle in Grantaire's hand as the cynic brought it to his lips.

"Grantaire," he called dully, half-hoping the man wouldn't hear him and he could turn around and slip off. It would mean spending Christmas Eve alone, but the prospect shouldn't have bothered him anywhere near as much as it did. 

As luck would have it, however, Grantaire did hear him, looking up a little too quickly and nearly spilling wine all down his front. For a wild moment, he thought he'd imagined it, the sound of his Apollo (but not really his, never his), calling his name. He'd imagined it before of course, countless times, but needless to say, the context was usually quite different. 

Peering through the darkness, it became evident to him that he hadn't imagined it this time, despite the impressive amount of alcohol in his system, and he made a hasty attempt to recover, raising an eyebrow and slouching further against the wall.

"What, Apollo?" he called back, slurring only slightly with a soft sneer in his voice. "Have you come to scorn me further? Didn't get enough in the Musain? I'm surprised, you usually have an audience for this. Any chance to belittle me in front of the others, I suppose."

Enjolras didn't respond at first, walking forward to close the distance between them until he stood a foot away from Grantaire, crossing his arms over his narrow chest. 

Grantaire blinked back at him, unable to help noticing how thin and pale Enjolras looked in the cold night. He really didn't take very good care of himself, he was too busy with his damn cause. It was going to be the death of him. He needed someone to show him how to care for himself, maybe someone with a little more distance than Combeferre.

'Someone like you?' The thought came unbidden and he shook his head to clear it, smirking thinly at Enjolras. Ridiculous.

"Combeferre sent me to find you," Enjolras informed him, and Grantaire snorted under his breath, nodding.

"Of course he did, you wouldn't be out here otherwise."

The blond frowned. "Do not presume to know what I would or wouldn't do. You don't know the first thing about me."

"Likewise, Apollo."

"And stop calling me Apollo, for god's sake."

"For your sake?"

Enjolras sighed in exasperation, shuffling and wrapping his arms tighter around himself. It really was cold, and his red jacket was more for looks than actual warmth. Combeferre had bought him a winter coat after discovering he didn't actually own one, but Enjolras never wore it, a subject of intermittent debate. 

This is pointless, he thought darkly, glancing over his shoulder at the distant lights of the Musain. He should have known trying to talk to Grantaire wouldn't accomplish anything. It never did. What the hell had Combeferre thought was going to happen?

Grantaire noticed his discomfort and relented, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Look, it's really cold out, and you're not really dressed for it," he began almost apologetically, offering a tentative truce. "Why don't you let me walk you home and you can wear my jacket so you don't freeze to death?"

Enjolras' reaction was immediate, and his shoulders went rigid as he instantly went on the defensive.

"I'm perfectly alright, I can take care of myself thank you. I don't need you to walk me home and I don't need your jacket."

Grantaire blinked in surprise before his eyes narrowed and he scoffed, shaking his head.

"Right, I forgot. Gods don't need the help of lowly mortals such as myself, and Icarus burned when he got too close. Have a good night then, Apollo, and maybe if you're a good little boy, Père Noël will bring you presents."

He tipped Enjolras a lazy salute before turning and walking off, taking a long pull from his bottle. Enjolras watched him stumble slightly, gritting his teeth before making a snap decision and going after him, catching his arm. 

Grantaire looked down at his hand as though he wasn't entirely sure it was real. For how could something so delicate and beautiful ever grace the rough, stained material that covered an even rougher, browned arm?

"Wait," Enjolras murmured, making an effort to sound at least slightly less confrontational, still holding onto Grantaire's arm. It was clear the man was inebriated, and he didn't want to be responsible if Grantaire wandered off and managed to get himself hurt. 

At least that was what he told himself.

"You're right, it is cold out," he allowed, looking to meet his eyes. "We can walk to my place, it's closer. Come on."

He pulled on Grantaire's arm before letting go and starting down the street, not looking back to see if the man was following or not. With Enjolras' back to him (once again, he realized grudgingly), Grantaire allowed confusion to cross his face, blinking slowly and trying to work out if this was perhaps some sort of trick. 

Maybe Enjolras planned on murdering him in an alley so he could be rid of him once and for all. Well, at least it would be fitting. Grantaire had long ago convinced himself that when he died, Enjolras would play some sort of hand in it, whether knowingly or not.

Though 'not' was far more likely.

After a long moment, he began to follow Enjolras down the dark street, largely because he really didn't know what else to do. He kept a careful few paces behind, feeling vaguely like a psychopath stalker, which was how he thought it would look to anyone else. This beast of a man following some delicate, helpless young thing. He smirked.

They would quickly discover that Enjolras was many things, but helpless was not one of them.

Enjolras didn't say a word as they walked, staring straight ahead with his hands in his pockets until he had to remove them to unlock his apartment door, leading the way inside in silence. He turned on the closest lamp, looking around the living room and wincing inwardly. 

It only occurred to him then how much of a mess it was, with books and papers covering every available surface. And in some cases, the available surface was the floor.

"Sorry about the mess," he muttered, moving around and making a halfhearted attempt to pick things up and organize them into some kind of pile, which accomplished absolutely nothing.

Grantaire hid a soft smile, running the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip as he took in the space. Perhaps there was some part of Enjolras that was human after all. Wonderfully disorganized, absentmindedly human. 

"It's fine," he assured him, standing somewhat awkwardly with his shoulders lifted. He wasn't sure if he was meant to stay or if Enjolras would want him out of his house as quickly as possible. The latter seemed much more likely, and even if he had wanted to sit, there wasn't really any room to do so. 

It took Enjolras another moment to figure this out and he hastily cleared off the sofa, dropping a stack of papers onto the already-covered coffee table.

"You can sit down if you want," he offered, running a hand through his blond curls and not noticing the way Grantaire stared. The artist shook himself, managing a strained smile in thanks and moving to perch carefully on the edge of the sofa (red, of course). 

Now it was Enjolras' turn to stand awkwardly, clearing his throat and studying the floor.

"...Do you want coffee?" he asked eventually, already walking into the kitchen for the sole purpose of having something to do besides standing around like an idiot.

"Alright," Grantaire agreed, not even bothering to hide the slight surprise from his voice as he watched the young blond, feeling rather like a scraggly puppy one was forced to feel sorry for.

Or like a large smear of dirt that just wouldn't go away.

Enjolras returned with two cups, handing Grantaire his and sitting beside him on the couch, keeping plenty of distance between them.

"I hope black's alright, I don't really have anything to put in it," he explained, taking a long drink despite the temperature of the liquid.

"Black is fine." Grantaire watched him, slightly impressed, though he took the time to blow carefully on his coffee before taking a sip, feeling the warmth start to settle in. Enjolras was quiet for awhile, drinking his coffee steadily, before he spoke again without warning.

"I wanted to-- about earlier, at the Musain, I wanted--" He was usually an expert with words, why was this so difficult? "I didn't mean for it to go that far," he finished lamely, staring down into the mug. He didn't actually say the words 'I'm sorry', but he didn't have to. Grantaire knew that it was as close to an apology as Enjolras would ever get. 

The artist stared at him wordlessly, long enough for Enjolras to grow uncomfortable and glance up at him.

"What?"

"...What do you want for Christmas?" Grantaire asked him calmly.

"I'm sorry?"

"What do you want for Christmas?"

"Erm--" He hadn't really thought about it. "Reformed tax laws, I suppose." Grantaire smiled fondly. 

"I'll see what I can do," he murmured.

"What do you want for Christmas?" Enjolras ventured, and Grantaire was quiet for a long moment.

"You really want to know?"

"Would I have asked if I didn't?" The words were slightly snapped and Grantaire's smile grew. That was the Enjolras he knew.

"I suppose not," he admitted, falling silent again before seeming to come to some sort of decision, nodding a little to himself. "You want to know what I want for Christmas?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, and Enjolras hesitated, staring back at him before nodding. His jaw was set, though his blue eyes were uncharacteristically uncertain.

Grantaire studied his face before deciding, to hell with it, leaning in closer and brushing a rough but incredibly gentle hand through Enjolras' blond curls before pressing a long, soft kiss to his lips, demanding nothing. 

Enjolras froze in surprise, stilling, and Grantaire was certain he was going to pull away, his heart sinking in his chest.

'That's it. I've fucked up this time, he's never going to talk to me again'.

But then Enjolras was kissing him back, long slender fingers wrapping in the front of Grantaire's jacket to pull him closer, and the artist was only too happy to oblige him, his head spinning. 

This was happening. This was really happening. It was absolutely the most cliche thing ever, but he didn't care, because he was kissing Enjolras and Enjolras was kissing him and Christ his lips were soft.

And then coherent thought became entirely impossible, because Enjolras was pulling him on top of him, his long pale form stretching out on the couch, and Grantaire could feel all of his enthusiasm and desperation and frustration, and heat coiled in his middle, so intense he was sure the blond could feel it. 

Months of pent-up tension found their release all at once, and it wasn't long before clothes were littering the floor and their limbs became an inextricable, ever-moving tangle, Enjolras' thin arms wrapped tightly around Grantaire's neck, their lips colliding again and again because they simply couldn't bear to be apart.

They spent most of the night in such a fashion, a gorgeous mess of labored breathing and gasping moans, until a pale gray light crept through the window and Christmas morning found them fast asleep on the couch, utterly exhausted and wrapped in each other's arms.


	5. Christmas Morning

The light of Christmas morning crept in through Enjolras' living room window, finding both men still unconscious as it slowly illuminated a room filled with the heavy silence of sleep. But it wouldn't stay that way for long. The front door, left unlocked the night before, swung open suddenly, admitting Courfeyrac and Jehan who announced their arrival with a cheerful, unified call of "Joyeux Noël!" It was Courfeyrac who first spotted his friends, still tangled up with one another on the sofa, and he gave a low whistle, his face threatening to split with his ear-to-ear grin. Enjolras woke first, tousled head of blond curls appearing over the top of the couch, and he sat up abruptly, a look of sheer terror on his face. Grantaire took longer to wake, roused by the sudden movement of the man who had previously been curled up so sweetly on top of him. 

"Hey, what's-?" He broke off, noticing where Enjolras' face was turned, and slowly making the connection in his sleep-muddled brain. Sitting up more slowly than his companion had, he placed a hand on Enjolras' waist, partly to anchor himself, but mostly to ensure that the blond wouldn't fall over. 

"Well, I would ask how your night went, but I think I can guess," Courfeyrac hummed, his eyes glowing with mischief. 

Grantaire just rolled his eyes, seemingly unfazed, while Enjolras scrambled to grab the red blanket that was folded on the back of the couch to cover himself with.

"Please, I've caught you in more awkward situations than this," the artist pointed out, watching Enjolras with amusement but exercising some mercy and keeping the attention on himself for the moment while the blond recovered. Jehan hadn't said a word the entire time, just hovered behind Courfeyrac, giddy with excitement. 

"True," Courfeyrac allowed, smirking. "I figure if you're gonna do it, you might as well give them a show."

Jehan rolled his eyes, nudging him in reprimand, but Grantaire just laughed.

"Well show's over. Go into the kitchen, alright?"

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to protest, but Jehan grabbed his arm, hauling him to the kitchen to give the two men their privacy. Only once they were more or less alone did Grantaire turn to Enjolras, grinning. 

"Good morning beautiful. Merry Christmas."

"Don't even start," the blond warned, pulling his shirt over his head and reaching for his pants. 

"Oh come on, where's your Christmas spirit?" Grantaire teased as he watched him, laughing when the blond shot him a warning glare. He decided to let the man dress in peace, though not before leaning in to steal a quick kiss, secretly delighted when Enjolras reciprocated. 

Enjolras finished changing and went to the kitchen to start some coffee and properly greet his friends, brushing off Courfeyrac's teasing, and Grantaire got himself dressed quickly, still not quite letting himself believe that last night had really happened. It was a dream. An alcohol-induced dream, and there was an entirely reasonable explanation for why he and the blond had woken up together, naked, besides the obvious.

He didn't have long to dwell on it, however, as the others arrived soon after. Enjolras' home tended to be the unofficial meeting place on Christmas morning, and everyone came bearing presents. By that time, Enjolras and Grantaire were much more put together, but it didn't take long for the significant change in their relationship to become apparent to the others. The mood was warm and cheerful, a drastic change from the tense encounter between revolutionary and cynic the night before. Jehan climbed up on Bahorel's shoulders to hang a piece of mistletoe from the ceiling, strands of auburn hair clinging to cheeks flushed pink with excitement. 

It was among the hum of conversation and gift-exchanging that Courfeyrac and Combeferre found a moment to themselves, the latter shyly approaching the brunet with a rectangular-shaped package. 

"Aw 'Ferre, you shouldn't have," Courfeyrac teased to hide his embarrassment, his heart having sped up the moment Combeferre was within reaching distance. He unwrapped the package carefully, wishing his fingers would stop shaking, and laughed softly when he saw what it was. A book, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. The basis for the musical Courfeyrac had performed in during his first year of college. "Oh my god, I remember that," he chuckled, touching the cover lightly. "Thank you."

His embarrassment growing, he handed Combeferre a similarly-shaped package, and it wasn't difficult to deduce that the nature of the gift was likely to be similar as well. Combeferre's eyes lit up when he unwrapped his own book, a complete guide on moths including species lists, locations, and eating habits. 

"Thank you, mon ami," he murmured softly, gazing down at it fondly. He missed the way Courfeyrac's face fell slightly at the friendly term, though the brunet recovered quickly. 

Combeferre looked up after a moment, and it was when he did that he happened to notice what they were standing under. "I must remember to thank Jehan," he hummed, causing Courfeyrac to glance up as well, confused. The centre's face went bright red when he saw the mistletoe, and he attempted to laugh it off, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Yeah, well you know Jehan. He's a regular Cupid. I mean, the apartment's pretty small, I'm sure he didn't mean-"

He was interrupted by the sudden feeling of Combeferre's lips on his, the man's hand gently cupping his cheek, and Courfeyrac froze before returning the kiss tentatively, as though afraid that Combeferre was somehow going to break. The guide pulled away first, his own cheeks slightly flushed, and he adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. 

"I apologise, that was...uncalled for."

Courfeyrac shook his head quickly, his brown eyes wide. 

"No, no. That was-- fine. More than fine, I mean, it was...incredible."

Combeferre blinked in surprise, looking at him uncertainly.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

A slow, hesitant smile grew on Combeferre's face and he leaned back in, well aware of the other's eyes on them as he kissed the man again, feeling Courfeyrac's lips connect with his. There was a small, excited squeal from Jehan, followed by laughter, and Grantaire caught Enjolras' eye, wrapping an arm around his waist and squeezing gently. He was glad they weren't the only ones who had found their happiness. 

It was still cold outside. Icy fingers still tapped on the windows, the frigid wind still whispered outside the door. But just as the night before, in the café Musain, the room was filled with warmth, with good friends and with lovers who had gotten their own little Christmas miracle. And so no one felt the cold. Instead they felt the laughter of their loved ones, their touch, and the promise of an approaching new year. 

And only time could tell what was in store for les Amis.


End file.
